Maroon
by Incomprehensible
Summary: Life was a cruel entity, and she was just another one of its playthings. And all she could do was cry when the picture mocked her from its perch so far above her. Response to Nobody's "Puppet" challenge.


_Characters and plot belong to their rightful owners._

**Maroon.**

The cropped black and white image on her vanity mirror smiled down at her, the black and white eyes lit with an eerie happiness that was no more. Wordlessly, Kagome traced the outline of the fuzzy face, wishing that it was in some other colour than the canon two–and–grey tones. Even sepia would have been better.

The constant smile on her face was now replaced with a silk handkerchief on the table and a glossy–eyed look.

Her cornflower blue eyes twisted lifelessly to set upon the silver sheets on the bed – still mused from the last time they had slept in it, and her face screwed up into a bitter smile, the stinging in her nose just a minute warning to the tears she would not shed.

She hadn't slept in their bed in thirteen days, instead opting to sleep on the couch, or the floor beside the bed – her sad attempt at preserving their lost lifestyle.

Once she had been considered a great vision of beauty, with the looks and sweet attitude to boot, but now, now with her swollen eyes and pale complexion, her skin scrubbed pink like inconsequential and her mind spewing up bits and pieces of broken memories from their past. Now she looked like a zombie: running on autopilot.

Kagome's eyes slid back to stare at her own reflection, their glossy surface blurring the corners of her vision and casting the world into a dreary, depressing slant.

_How beneficial._

The blue and red decorations that crested the mirror's edges made her eyes ache, and a single tear rolled down her cheek.

Kagome wiped it away roughly; averting her gaze to her lap where her hands lay bunched together, her fingers threaded through each other to create a complexly simple pattern – a paradox within its own right.

Her dress was simple – a black little thing that ended just below her knees, a silver sash running from just under her right breast to curve around her generously proportioned hip. It was the dress he had always said she looked good in. Her fists clenched, creating little half–moons in her palm. She felt nauseous and dizzy, her head pounding with barely concealed anxiety, and the overwhelming urge to just _sleep _completely obliterated her other senses. She had written it off as the after–shock of losing her husband.

–

The lipstick was liberally smeared to hide the scars that lay beneath her painted skin.

Not many people had come to witness the burial of her husband, only but a handful of people: his brother, best friend and the remainder of his scattered family. Nothing to be ashamed of, but nothing to be proud of, either.

The dingy oranges and browns of fall leaves bore down upon the world, leaving her a sad trail of the most grotesque and beautiful of bouquets. Slowly, slowly, slowly the wooden casket was lowered into the ground and dirt was piled up on top, filling the physical hole, but leaving the mental one raw and not quite infected.

She didn't cry – not when the pastor recited passages from the Bible, 'nor when she gave her hollow words of appreciation, or when her brother–in–law had hugged her. Instead, her gaze had stayed trained to the marker of life and death.

Beside him another grave was dug out, just waiting for her.

The headstone rose majestically from the ground, only his name was engraved in the glossy black granite.

_Sesshoumaru Taishou._

–

And life went on.

Kagome visited the doctor.

The need to sleep had grown stronger as the days went by, the nausea growing more apparent as the minutes ticked away.

She sat in the clinic's reception area, waiting for her results to come back.

A quick glance at the clock heralded the hour, and the sweet lullaby of chimes softened the air.

The door squeaked open, and the doctor stepped out, his tired, old face set with lines. "Ms. Higurashi?" He asked.

"Mrs. Taishou." She corrected automatically.

The doctor nodded solemnly, his wizened old face turning pitying.

"You tested negative for any viruses or infection, _but_," he informed her quietly, and she sagged in relief, only to tense again. He had used the 'but'. That was never good. He continued. "_But,_ I'm pleased to inform you that you're pregnant. Take it easy, don't stress yourself–"

The doctor's words faded away as the young woman stiffened, her hand coming up to rest tenderly against her womb. Was it true? Was she really pregnant? That meant that it was _his_. Another thing to remember him by. She wondered if he would look like him, with the silver hair and golden eyes. Maybe he would even have the same personality. Kagome paled. Could she do it?

Life was a cruel entity, and she was just another one of its playthings.

A marionette fine–tuned to the strings that controlled her life.

And on her vanity, the picture still lay, in sepia, maroon, and rouge.

Her lips were smeared with lipstick.

_(Holy crap. That started as one thing, and ended as an entirely different thing. Meant for Nobody's "Puppet" challenge over on Dokuga. Enjoy. – Incomprehensible)_


End file.
